James Donahoe

I sort memories
like string of Mardi Gras beads
saved in a cigar box
Maybe it as you
who hugged me on Royal Street
to escape a drunken tourist.
Maybe we crossed paths
at Salle d’Arms
that bar with Paris newspaper walls
sprinkled red by a shotgun blast.
Maybe it was my candle
that cast your shadow
at the Napoleon House.
I still visit the Quarter,
to run through the rain,
to dodge back into old doorways.
Nothing there
ever seems
much older.

James Donahoe​